by J. S. Morin
* * * * * * * *
The tiny speck on the horizon could have been anything. It might have been the peak of a mountain on some island he had yet to spot. It might have been a whale, or a shark, or some other sea creature breeching. Scale was impossible to judge due to the vast distance Tanner could see through the spyglass he had been given. From a wooden bucket built around the central mast of the ship, he had a splendid vantage, but no experience in spotting ships. The ship was staffed with a miser’s crew, or some real sailor would have sat watch. It mattered little to Tanner’s thinking, since the whole idea was to be found by Denrik Zayne, and not the other way around. He had taken the job just for the novelty. He had traveled many a time across the Katamic without ever having so good a view.
The motion of the ship made it difficult to keep the long, tubular contraption of aligned lenses pointed where he wanted to look. It was Tanner’s first time using a spyglass as well, since he was a mere passenger on all his previous voyages, and there was little call for the things on land. Fiddling with the lenses to keep his vision from blurring vexed him. Had he any real talent for magic, he would have used that instead of the troublesome device.
“Ship!” he called down to the captain, when finally he was able to discern white sails against the pale blue of the horizon sky. “Way, way off in front and left of us, that way.” He pointed when the captain looked up. It was hardly the most nautical of exchanges, but Tanner got the necessary information relayed.
Captain Rangelord took up his own glass, and confirmed the sighting as they drew close enough to see it from the quarterdeck. It was too far to tell much about it, but it appeared that it was heading west, across the course the Frostwatch Symphony was following. It was also far enough to the port side that it would pass quite close to them. The captain took the wheel, and turned it gently to steer them just a bit eastward of their previous heading. It was a common enough maneuver on the open seas, if one captain had no wish to parley with another, to veer to pass behind another ship instead of meeting it.
Captain Rangelord returned to his spyglass and watched. Most ships would think nothing of their change in course; a navy ship might investigate, had they any reason to suspect smugglers or pirates. A troubled ship or one bearing a message might have enough need of parley to turn to intercept. And of course there were pirates. Pirates most certainly would not let such an opportunity slip away just behind them.
Through a trick of the eye or a calming wind, the vessel in the distance seemed to slow; Captain Rangelord saw no change in their sails. As they drew closer, he recognized the ship’s profile in the water and the cut of its sails, and knew it for an Acardian vessel. It was a frigate, but an older design than the Fair Trader that Zayne sailed.
“Rot it,” the captain swore softly.
One way or another, if that ship tried to board them, be they Acardian sailors or pirates, their only option was to repel the boarders and take their ship. There was no way the Acardians would tolerate a ship such as the Frostwatch Symphony trolling the waters with a hold full of coinblades, looking for ships to plunder, pirate or no.
When the second vessel deemed the time right, they swung around and openly made straight for the Symphony. Captain Rangelord spun the wheel hard, taking evasive actions. As prepared as his mercenaries were for being caught, the trap would not be so convincing if they gave up without resistance.
Breaking her silence as she had stood watching the vessel approach from the forward railing of the quarterdeck, Soria called over to the captain: “They are dropping their colors and raising the blacks.”
Rangelord looked briefly her way before he pulled out his spyglass once more to get a look at the ship’s flags. In her eyes, he caught a glimpse of an eagerness that sat ill with him. In his experience, a gleam in the eye before a battle was the mark of a murderer, not a fighting man—or fighting woman, he amended mentally. Any sensible sort, hoping to live, win, and collect a purse afterward, had the sense to have his guts curl up inside him when about to wade into a clash of swords, knives, and pistols.
Through the spyglass, he saw something that he was not sure how to take. On the one hand, the Acardian ship had raised a black flag emblazoned with a white “Z,” the simple sigil Zayne had used for years. On the other, it was clearly not the Fair Trader that had left Marker’s Point some months ago. Rangelord had seen it and marked it well, and this was not that vessel, unless his eyes were betraying him.
“Wretched whoreson has himself a fleet.”
* * * * * * * *
The Frostwatch Symphony had a wide, rounded hull, excellent at hauling cargo for a ship its size. The wide beam and deep draft kept it stable in the water, and made for a safe, seaworthy vessel. It also made it slow. It was ideally suited to being caught and so it was.
As the two ships came close, the crew abandoned their posts and grabbed belaying pins. This gave them the appearance of desperate men, determined to die fighting, rather than surrender to the questionable mercies of the pirates of the cheekily named Merciful. The pirate ship sidled up to them without firing a shot, and threw grappling hooks, snaring the Frostwatch Symphony and drawing the two ships together. The Merciful’s railings were lined with armed men, bristling to leap the gap and sink their blades into the outnumbered crew of their prey ship. For their part, the men with belaying pins backed away from the rails.
When the first dozen or so set boot to deck, the captain sprang their trap. “Now!” he shouted in Kheshi, a language most of the coinblades spoke, whether natively or from having traveled. The large crates on the deck sprung open and cramped, sore, irritable, and well-armed men poured out. Men thundered up the stairs from the holds below. From the Merciful, surprised but undeterred men continued their crossings over to the Symphony.
Amid all those men, one woman reached back, pulled two blades from their hidden sheaths, and leapt into the heart of the fray. At first, Soria’s bold charge had gained her the advantage of surprise, allowing her to bury her blades into two pirates before they could react. The black lacquer on her blades concealed runes she had carved there herself, leaving only the razor edges gleaming, bare steel. It was crude work by the standards of Veydrus, but stood her in good stead punching through mail and plate on Tellurak. Blood ran off them like red waterfalls.
Freed from his duties keeping one of the crates closed, Rakashi drew forth his half-spear. As coinblades from Khesh, Feru Maru, Acardia, and a dozen other tinier places swarmed the deck of the ship, it was the Takalish warrior who gave men pause. The half-spear was an uncommonly used weapon, worse than either a sword or a spear in the hands of a novice. In the hands of a master, it was versatile and deadly. Rakashi’s first swing was with both hands near the pommel, taking advantage of having a longer reach than anyone else in the melee to land the first blow. The leverage of the blow was too much for the cutlass that tried to parry it, and the blade buried itself in the chest one of Zayne’s pirates via his collarbone. One of the man’s comrades, seeking an opening, tried to make short work of Rakashi, but the Takalish master let go the hilt with one hand and dropped to the deck, ducking beneath the handle half of his weapon and letting the blow land there instead. He tangled his legs between his opponent’s feet and tripped him as he regained his own footing. Freeing his blade from the dead pirate, he gutted the stumbling one and moved to look for more opponents.
Toward the center of the deck, Zellisan waded among the mercenaries as they formed some semblance of a military line. It was no neat row of troops, but rather an instinctive formation made of men who knew that, so long as you kept your allies to your left and right, you need only worry about what lies before you. The pirates fought well together, though, and had an advantage of numbers.
From high above, a shot cracked, splitting the air above the ferocious din of the battle raging on the deck of the Frostwatch Symphony. Tanner’s new plaything was guarding against any unwelcome odds he saw his companions facing. The pirates had pistols as well, and shots v
olleyed between the swaying deck of the ship and crow’s nest high above. Tanner felt safe enough, given what the pistolsmith had told him of the accuracy of the thing and his shielding spell in place. His Errol pistol felt easy in his hands. With a good eye and a feel for the roll of the waves, he was mainly hitting his targets. Tanner was a soldier by trade; seeing a battle from an archer’s view was a new experience. He rather liked it.
* * * * * * * *
Where is he? Soria thought angrily … hungrily.
Men with blades thrice the length of her dagger were giving her wide berth after seeing half a dozen men dead by her hand, but she was more concerned with searching their faces than engaging them. They were more than obligingly not rushing to cross blades with her, either.
Zayne should be here somewhere. If he did not board, he must still be on his ship.
Soria had thought little enough of the ship’s name—had not even really paid attention to it. They were at sea to catch a pirate and they had: one flying Zayne’s sigil and everything. That it might not be his own personal ship had not crossed her mind. She assumed that she would see a face quite similar to one she remembered from the mines of Raynesdark, stealing the Staff of Gehlen.
Zayne’s men had firm hold of the area where the ships met, but Soria did not let that deter her. She killed two more and kicked a third over the railings, leaving a path to make the leap to the Merciful. A shot reported from just behind her. Soria felt her shield reverberate and then a shock of pain shoot through her back, but it was fleeting. There was a sting left in its wake, but the pistol shot had not quite pierced her shield.
Stupid things are worse than arrows. Too fast and too small. Rakashi’s half-spear would be easier to stop, she groused to herself. She paused just long enough to renew the aether of her shields from her own Source, then made the leap across.
The eager among the pirate crew had made the crossing already. That left the reluctant, the cautious, and the slow remaining on the Merciful’s deck. She scanned what she could see of the ship as men backed away from her, weapons drawn.
“Where’s Zayne?” she demanded loudly in Acardian, hoping the pirate might even hear her himself, even if his crew would not reveal him. Unsurprisingly, none spoke up and she knew most had understood her.
Soria had been watching in normal light so that she could identify Denrik Zayne by her memory of what his twin looked like. She switched to the aether, which let her see all around her, and waited for an opportunity to present itself. She turned slowly, looking at each man and watching him shrink from her. She lurched the opposite direction in a feint and smiled as three men nearly tripped over one another to get out of her way. A quick look over her shoulder, and another man hastening to get out of her way made the mistake she was looking for.
With a quick snap of her wrist, a dagger flew. The unfortunate man she had picked out instinctively tried to deflect it with his cutlass, but it was aimed to miss high regardless. The dagger sank into the mast he had backed into, a handsbreadth above his head, and the free hand that had thrown it was twisting his sword arm before he could recover. A forearm jammed itself under his chin, forcing his head against the mast, and the blade Soria still held was just brushing his throat.
“Where is Zayne?” Soria snarled, meeting him eye to eye, though her own gaze appeared to look right through him until she shifted back into the light to see him better.
“This … This ain’t Zayne’s ship. I … I … I mean it’s Zayne’s ship, but he don’t sail it. We just work fer him is all,” the frightened man babbled.
“Who is captain here, then?” Soria demanded, addressing the ship at large and not just her captive.
Soria heard two clicks. Pistols were uncommon among decent folk, but she had been around enough of the other sort to recognize the sound of the hammer of one being cocked. Slowly she turned her head to see who held them.
“I am,” replied a man with sun-browned skin and dark, slicked-back hair. He smiled as he spoke with an ease that bespoke confidence and curiosity about the visitor his ship had received. “I think you can stop one shot but just barely. Two … I think maybe not?” he asked, as if posing the question more theoretically than the two pistols aimed for Soria’s head suggested. “We get so few visitors here, it would be a shame to make a habit of putting holes in them. Especially pretty visitors.”
“Who are you?” Soria asked, trying to keep her accustomed “demand” out of her tone.
He may be right. Two might be too much and I don't relish even one hitting me in the head, shield or no shield.
“I am Robbono Stalyart, captain of the Merciful, proudly sailing under Denrik Zayne’s banner. I am also a man who sees things others do not. Three times I will ask this: who are you?” Stalyart responded, bowing his head slightly in introduction, but taking neither his eyes nor the aim of his pistols from her.
“Soria Coinblade,” she said, wondering what he was playing at—and he clearly seemed to be playing. There was something distinctly flippant about his attitude that made her think this Captain Stalyart was not taking her entirely seriously as a threat.
“Ahh, a Kheshi warrioress with no family name. Instead she takes on a false one, like her false hair, false eyes. Without those, who are you?” Stalyart prodded, chuckling.
His men were slowly making their way away from Soria, back to where their captain could offer some protection, real or perceived. Soria released her hold on the pirate she had pinned, and freed her second dagger from where it was stuck in the mast before deciding on an answer. The man was useless as a hostage anyway.
“Just Soria, then, I suppose. Acardian by birth but orphaned in Khesh and raised there. If you are done with distractions, I need to find someone. If Zayne isn't here, then maybe you can answer me,” Soria said.
She took a deep breath as if to steady her nerves, and averted her gaze. Slipping back to aether-vision, she checked the Source of this Stalyart fellow. His was hale and healthy, stronger than most, enough so that she might have difficulty corralling him with a telekinesis spell. It might be enough for her to spoil his aim, though, should the need arise. The battle still raged aboard the other ship, occupying most of the crews of both ships, and on the Merciful, only the captain appeared to be armed with more than a blade.
“Aha! You claimed to be seeking Captain Zayne, but it is someone else you are looking for.” The pirate captain laughed aloud. “I have your story figured out, I think, but I would hear one detail from you and your reason. Tell me, in truth, who you really are and why you seek the twin of Brannis Solaran, then we may be able to deal.”
Soria’s eyes widened. “You know where he is?”
Stalyart nodded.
“You could take me to him?”
Stalyart cocked his head innocently and shrugged, but said nothing.
“I am Juliana Archon,” she replied in Kadrin. “Where is Kyrus Hinterdale?”
“My terms are these: win this ship for me, and I will take you to him, and grant safe passage back to the mainland, if you desire. I think this battle goes badly. You can change that, I think,” Stalyart said.
Zayne’s pirates or root-peddlers from the Point. Same scum, different pond, but this Stalyart knows where Brannis is.
“Deal.”
* * * * * * * *
Zellisan grunted in exertion as he parried another heavy blow. The fellow he was dueling was one of the few opponents he had ever faced who had both a reach and strength advantage on him. The brute had carved up a handful of the Symphony’s coinblades before engaging Zell and was now pressing him as well. The man was not a graceful fighter, but was young and vigorous, making up in ferocity what he lacked in technique. Zellisan could tell that the pirates were losing men, though, and if he kept his current foe at bay long enough, someone would come free to help kill him. Zell was well past the age of caring who got the glory blow to end a fight, or objecting to dishonorable tactics in what had many similarities to a formal duel. In the end, they wanted
one another dead and he was rather indifferent as to how the other fellow met his end, so long as he lived through the battle.
“Change of plans! Switch sides!” a high voice bellowed over the clash of swords, screams of the injured, and occasional reports of pistol fire. It spoke Kadrin.
Oh, for the love of …
Zellisan blew an exasperated breath, made a feint to draw his opponent’s defenses up, and quick-stepped back away from him. Each of the hired blades aboard the Frostwatch Symphony had been given a purple ribbon to tie around his upper arm. In the chaos of battle among two crews of mongrels, they wanted some way to tell who was on whose side. Zellisan slipped his sword under his own ribbon and cut his away.
“Sorry, friend,” he apologized to his opponent. “Looks like I finish up this one on your side.”
The big man appeared unconvinced, but Zellisan gritted his teeth, and cut down two unsuspecting former comrades who had not yet realized the betrayal.
Little princess, you vex me sorely at times. You had best hope Rakashi goes along; he likes these little stunts of yours even less than I do.
It was not the first time one of Soria’s plots had them changing sides mid battle, and he knew better than to toss vinegar in her stew.
* * * * * * * *
These are the things that love makes us do. Would I do any less if the quest were for my own beloved? Rakashi knew the desperate need Soria felt for finding this Kyrus fellow, the twin of her twin’s love. She could content herself in Veydrus if she could find contentment in Tellurak. Rakashi had never heard of such a thing happening among the twinborn, but he supposed that the bonds of marriage existed separately in each world. To carry on an affair in such a matter felt unseemly, but he could not rationalize the feeling with any sound reasoning. “This world is not the other world.” I taught her that myself.